I met a Man
by Hellsig Otoupeim
Summary: I met a man by the Piazza today. I didn't meet him, not per say, because meeting involves two people and I was the only one to perceive him - but I met a man by the Piazza today. It was beautiful.


Disclaimer: I do not own Blood +, never mind how much I think Hagi is the best character and deserves a much happier ending than waiting for a girl who will never quite love him the same way he loves her.

* * *

 **I met a man (by the piazza today)**

He finds her abandoned wheelchair first, and it intrigues him enough that he takes a look. He knows it's foolish to be back, but he has learnt to trust his instinct and he thinks he might obtain something if he just went in. His wounds are still healing, so he is careful in stepping over rubble and making his way inside.  
He sees her body, then, and for a second he cannot place her though she is definitely familiar. Then it clicks. (She's thinner and paler, and of course not breathing any more, but it's definitely the same girl.) There is a folder next to her. He picks it up, because he thinks it might explain and it's full of letters inside. They are for someone and although it's too late to do much, he thinks the least he can do is deliver them to the right person. He's surprised to see they are for him.  
He thinks back to Saya and Kai - and decides on moving forward.

I met a man by the piazza today. I didn't meet him, not per say, because meeting involves two people acknowledging each other and only I perceived him. I saw a man by the piazza today. He has long dark hair tied back by a ribbon, and he wears one of the costumes that you can see on TV from one of those period dramas. He plays the cello.

I saw a man on the piazza today. There is a strange ache in my chest whenever I think of him.

* * *

He was there again. Instead of just rushing past, as I did yesterday, I slowed down and strolled along the piazza, looking at things without really seeing them. He played the same song as yesterday.

I wonder why he is here, playing the cello for people who don't listen. .

I stopped, today. There was a small circle of curious people listening to the man playing the cello, so I stopped amongst them and listened as well. I was late for school. He played the same song as yesterday, the same song as the day before - but he played it faster, today. Like he was running out of time. I thought he might look up, at the end, when everyone applauded, but he didn't. He just played the piece again, hauntingly beautiful. I stayed for three songs.  
He doesn't have a hat or a case to put money in. I only noticed when someone tried to go give him a fiver and he ignored them. He has no case, no disc, no apparent need for money - and yet I wonder why he comes to the piazza to play.

* * *

Today is Saturday, and so I stayed on the piazza for a lot longer. I sat on the steps of the church, my head pillowed on my arms as I basked in the sun and listened to the cello. I wanted to cry - I don't know why. I don't think I'll stop again; it's made me feel all weird inside. I don't think I like what the man with the cello has done to me. My inside hurt. It's like there's an iron band in my stomach that twists and grips; and I don't dare tell anyone because they'll think me mad. I want to cry for the cello man. I don't think I can stop again by the piazza. I don't know if I can refrain from passing by.

* * *

I accompanied Carl today to get food for the week. We walked by the piazza, and the cello man was there again. The song was slower this time, but Carl didn't pay it any notice and walked right by. I wonder why - it was truly beautiful today. I wanted to sit down on the church steps and cry; never mind the iron core in my belly. Carl doesn't care much for music. I think I want to learn how to play the cello.

* * *

Being late to school wasn't my fault today. It was raining and school got cancelled since they say there is a big storm coming. I learnt it as I got to the gate, because they had taped a sign to the bars. I was soaked to the bones, despite my umbrella, so I put it back in my bag before the wind could steal it and walked home.

I had been so careful in avoiding the piazza on my way to school, but coming back I was so focused on getting home that I didn't remember my decision to avoid the cello man until I was already half way through and he was sitting under the rain, with his varnished cello and his hair dripping wet and playing.  
Everything was grey around us, with people crazily holding onto their umbrellas and trying to get to the warmth. Everyone was so focused on themselves that no one noticed the cello man, playing underneath the rain. It was grey around us, so grey the varnished wood of his cello was the only light and I wanted to cross over and gather him in my arms and cry for him.

I don't know how long I stood underneath the rain, only that my phone rang at some point and it was Carl, asking me where I was. I told him I was on my way home and he said he was stuck at work and I told him it was okay.

I can't remember what time it was when I got home, but the rain had stopped and Carl was yelling.

* * *

I avoided the piazza on my way to school and on my way back on Tuesday. I thought I was doing really well, but then it was eleven at night and I couldn't sleep. I could hear the song in my head and I desperately wanted to see the long haired man.

I slipped out of the house and ran to the piazza. It was desert.

I don't know why I felt so downhearted, but I sat where he used to sit to play the cello and I tried to remember how the Song went. It didn't feel the same, so

I went back to the steps of the church and I tried to find it again, that feeling in my chest as I listened to the crying of the bow on the strings. There was no sun and no music, so when I got home and slipped in my bed, I felt empty.

I don't think I will avoid the piazza again tomorrow. I don't think I can.

* * *

I managed to. It's ten o'clock and I want nothing more than to rush there and listen to the dark haired man playing the cello. My head hurts and there's a ball in my throat that makes my eyes water. I want to see the long haired man and hear him play. I want to see the black haired man and I want to listen to whatever he has to say. I want to know what he is looking for, coming everyday to the piazza and playing for us, playing for me. I want to hear his Song again.

He wasn't there either. This time, I left quickly. Yesterday had made me feel too empty.

* * *

I woke up early today even though I was tired from going out looking for cello man last night. I wanted to try and get to the piazza in time to listen to a full song. I wanted to start my day feeling happy and sad and not-empty any more.

Cello man wasn't there. He arrived at around half past six, which I suppose makes sense because the piazza was desert before that time. I was sat on the steps of the church as I watched the sun peek across the horizon. He came with the sun. I wonder if he leaves with the sun each night. By half past seven I needed to go to school, but I stayed until eight. I don't know if cello man noticed, but it seemed to me like he played more beautifully today than he had the days before. The song was even more haunting than I remembered it. I was late for school, and my home room teacher promised I'd be put in detention if it happened again. I asked her when they were, because I have the feeling that I'll be late tomorrow.

* * *

I was late again. This time I arrived at six thirty prompt, and I was surprised to see cello man's silhouette peek from the street on the other side of the piazza.

He put his case down in the usual place, took his bow and his cello out as I got comfortable on the church steps. I wonder if he has realised that I wake up early every morning just to hear him play. My home room teacher gave me a detention after school today. Carl doesn't get home until eight, so I thought it wasn't a problem that I had to stay past normal time. I figured he wouldn't know.

It was the music teacher taking detentions today - which was lucky because she went easy on me when I told her that I was late to school because I got up early to listen to a man play the cello on the piazza. She asked me if I wanted to learn the cello, and she even "borrowed" one from the department to show me a few scales. She had to teach me how to hold the bow first though. She smiled when I told her that I might be late again tomorrow to school, and she ruffled my hair.

"_sometimes" she said, and I thought that I had to listen to her, because she had that half smile on her face that speaks of words from the heart "you have to do what makes you happy, regardless of the consequences. If getting up to listen to the cello man is what makes your day, then by all means be late to school. But don't tell your home room teacher I said that."

I walked back by the piazza, even though I tried so hard to avoid it in the evenings. He was there, playing the same song again and I felt the intolerable urge to go up to him and ask him why he played it, what he was waiting for, who he was thinking of. I stopped in the crowd for a while, listening, but as I made my mind and took a step towards him; I could have sworn his eyes flickered up to me. I must have imagined it. I went home, and I didn't feel empty at all.

* * *

It was raining this Monday morning. Not hard enough for school to be cancelled, but sufficiently that I had my umbrella with me when I got the piazza. He took a little bit longer to arrive, but he was already drenched by the time he set the cello up and I felt a little bit bad, dry under my umbrella as he got ready to play.

He didn't look up when I approached him, and I made sure that I wasn't bothering his movements when I got close enough to hold the umbrella over the both of us. I don't know if he appreciated it, but I like to think that, when it stopped raining and I looked down at my watch, swearing at the time, he smiled. I was late again, but the rain had let up and I knew cello man would be dry when he got home tonight.

I walked back by the piazza, and he was still there, so I went to sit down on the church steps and listened to him up until my phone rang and Carl asked to know where I was.

* * *

I had a second detention on Tuesday, but this time I had thought to record cello man on my phone that morning, so that I could let the music teacher listen to it. The recording was bad, but you could definitely hear the tune and I thought she might appreciate it. It was my English teacher who took detention today. I decided not to share the story of the cello man with him.

* * *

Wednesday, I recorded him again. I thought that if I did it often enough, I might detect a pattern in the speeds and moods he put into the song. It felt different each time I listened to him and today I was cold and lonely. It felt like the church steps were leeching away my warmth, even with the rising sun on my left. I wanted to go over and ask him, but I couldn't because he was already playing by the time I got to the piazza and I felt silly, cheated a little, that he had begun the ritual without me. (It's stupid, because the ritual clearly existed only in my head, but I would have liked for him to see me too.)

* * *

I didn't go to the piazza today. My home room teacher was surprised when I arrived on time, and he said he was glad because if I had been late twice more I would have gotten a Headmaster's detention - but all I could think of was the song and the cello man I had left behind on the piazza this morning. Because I didn't go to listen to him, I actually had tons of time before school. When I got there, the gates weren't even opened!

I sat with my phone and replayed the last two recordings, over and over again until the bell rang. It didn't fill the gap, so on my way home I stopped by the piazza and listened to him until night fell and he left. I couldn't move, even after he was gone, because the songs just kept playing in my head and I felt like I might throw up. I think someone tried to talk to me, to ask me if I was fine, and I said that yes, I was okay and I think they called Carl to come and get me because I felt a little dizzy - but the cello man was gone and even though I had listened to him for hours I still had that gaping hunger inside my chest.

* * *

I caught a cold. I'm not going into school today, which means that I won't be able to listen to cello man play. I think Carl is worried, because he spoke about taking time off work - and that's not good. Carl works hard to raise me and I can't let him worry too much.

I told him I was fine, that I just needed sleep and that I'd be well enough soon. He left for work with the promise to call every hour and I thought it was nice of him to try. I played the recordings of the past days on my phone as I laid in bed, but I couldn't sleep and I couldn't think and I couldn't heal, so I bundled myself up tightly and walked over to the piazza. Carl would kill me if he saw me out of bed.

My head felt like cotton, but the church steps were real and cool and I managed to lean my head on the cold stone, so I felt a little bit better, listening to the cello man. I kept coughing though, and my throat felt raw, but there was a hunger in me to stay and listen to the cello man play. I thought I couldn't leave if I tried.

The cello man never stopped for lunch, and I think I fell asleep at some point because I woke up and it was quite late. Carl called to let me know he had been held up at work and I pretended that I hadn't spent the day outside listening to the cello man. He said he wouldn't be back before ten, but it was okay. Cello man packed up his things at half past seven, when night was falling, and although it was my cue to move I felt like yesterday. My body was lested with lead and I couldn't move a limb, so I just closed my eyes and leant against the cool stone of the church. I don't know when I began crying.

"_you should go home."

It was cello man. Somehow I didn't think his voice would sound like that - it was deep and not at all what I had expected from someone so talented on the cello.

"_I'm too tired. I got sick and now I can't move."

"_you got sick coming here?"

I nodded, and I wondered how pitiful it looked for the man to see me everyday, as if I couldn't bear not to come and listen to him. I wondered if he thought it was creepy.

"_do you want help getting home?"

I thought for a second about nodding yes and letting him walk me home, but he already had a big cello on his back and he must have been tired from a day of playing.

"_I just need help getting up."

His hands were really warm for someone who had been playing in the cold all day.

* * *

Carl was home all of Sunday, but he didn't look too surprised when I asked him if he could take me out to the piazza. He said that staying inside all day yesterday must have made me feel stir crazy and that I probably needed fresh air. I didn't dare contradict him. It was busy and Carl didn't think staying long would help, so we walked around the piazza a few times and I even managed to make him stand still and listen to cello man for a bit. I was happy. Later on in my room, I put the recordings on and I fell asleep to the sound of the cello, trying to hold onto the soft, gravelly voice that had spoken to me yesterday.

* * *

My cold dragged on and I still wasn't well by Monday, so Carl went back to work and I bundled up again, getting ready for an entire day out on the piazza listening to cello man. He wasn't there.

I thought that, perhaps, he had been running late and so I waited, waited until I heard the bells chime nine, then ten and eleven and twelve, and when I realised that he simply wasn't coming today; I went back home and played the recordings.

* * *

He wasn't there Tuesday either.

* * *

Wednesday I stayed inside, refusing to go to the piazza, but I gave in and popped out at around twelve. When I realised that I couldn't hear the sound of the Song, I walked back home straight away. Once I no longer spent my sick days outside, I thought I might get back to school a lot quicker.

* * *

Friday I spat up blood.

I told Carl when he came home and he took me to the hospital. They ran tests and told me I had to stay overnight, and when Carl asked what time he should come back tomorrow, I wondered if cello man would mind that I had stopped coming. Carl left and I listened to the latest recordings that I had made, when the both of us had been out. It was hard to remember cello man's voice, but I could still feel the warmth of his hand through my palm. I wondered if it might sadden him that I was in hospital.

* * *

Saturday they told me it might be bacterial, and they said that Carl might want to bring my clothes over because I'd have to stay in for a little longer. When Carl left, they told me that if there was someone I needed to speak to, I better do it quickly.

Cello man isn't anywhere I can find him though.

* * *

They said it was a bacteria growing in my lungs and eating away the soft tissues. They said it shouldn't be dangerous, except that with the cold I had it had gotten blown to proportions that made it dangerous. They said that the bacteria had moved from my lungs into my blood. They said it had been detected at most of my ganglionic nodes already.

I asked Carl to take me back to the piazza. I knew he wanted to ask, but he didn't because I wasn't okay. I wanted to see cello man again.

The piazza was desert. I wanted to cry.

* * *

Carl now comes everyday to take me from the hospital to the piazza. I have decided that I wouldn't give up until I've said goodbye to the cello man. I had a lot of dreams for the future, including becoming a surgeon and having kids and loving them. I wanted a family, with a husband and a son and a daughter - but the doctors said I most probably wouldn't make it past Christmas. It's okay, I thought - it's only February. That gives me time. My body is running out of time. I have trouble breathing and I'm constantly exhausted. They say that they are trying to prevent the bacteria getting to my brain and they say that they can't understand why the treatment isn't working. They say there's something else, something we can try although Cinq Flèches is only just testing it. It's too expensive for Carl to afford without selling the flat and the car, so I said no without speaking with him about it. He would want me to have it and I want Carl to find someone to be happy with.

* * *

I was thirteen when my parents divorced. Mom was a drunk so I ended up living with Dad, who died in a car accident three months after the divorce. I went to live with mom, who was dating Carl at the time. When mom left, she didn't take anything with her other than the bottle of champagne in the fridge. Carl threw everything away but kept me.

I didn't want Carl to end up losing everything. I wanted to see cello man again. .

It's June and I wrote a letter. I'm being wheeled around in a chair because otherwise I get too out of breath. I haven't been able to use the stairs for at least three months and I'm struggling a lot with getting dressed in the morning. They say that most of the alveoli have been destroyed and that I might not even make it to Halloween. I want to see cello man again, but I don't think I can. Carl still brings me to the piazza every day. I've stopped waiting. I listen to the recording every mornings before the nurse comes to get me and every night once the hospital has fallen silent. It's a shame that you can't hear the sound of the cello clearly, but I can hum the melody now. The nurses say it's amazing, because I shouldn't have the breath for it. They think I live for music.

It's not true. I don't like music - I just like Cello Man's Song.

* * *

I should be beginning my last year of college now. I think about those girls in my class that never got up in the morning to listen to a stranger play cello and I try to imagine how their lives might be today. If they have a boyfriend, if they go out running every morning to keep up their skinny bodies, if they smoke or drink or have sex. I think I couldn't have sex even if I wanted to, because I can barely get out of my clothes without needing an oxygen mask and I certainly wouldn't have the strength to make love to someone. I can't drink or smoke either, especially since I live in the hospital. Carl visits me everyday, and I love him for it. Recently, he's been talking about a woman called Nina. I think I want to meet her before I die, because she makes Carl smile and she'll be important to him when I'm not around.

I think I want to see cello-man again.

* * *

I plan to give all these little diary entries to Carl before I die. I'll stop as soon as I can't hold a pen any more. I'd like them to get to you, cello man, so that you might know how much your Song meant to me when I was healthy.

Carl asked where I might have gotten the illness, and the doctors said they don't know. I looked it up, and it's very common in people who don't have a home and need to sleep outside. It appears that I got it listening to you, cello-man. I don't think I regret it. I listen to the recordings each day, and sometimes when I don't have the strength to do it myself I ask Carl to wheel me to the piazza and I listen to it there. I close my eyes and I pretend you are here, playing the cello and I'm healthy, sitting on the church steps and listening with the sun warming my back and my eyes closed. I hope I can feel this happy again.

* * *

I've made it past Halloween. The nurse brought me cake and Carl introduced me to Nina. She's nice, with big brown eyes and blonde hair. Her features are very doll-like, and she looks really fragile. Carl says that she takes nutrients because she's anaemic, and that they are really working well. He's even started taking some to avoid catching a cold and he's never felt so strong or in shape. He says that Cinq Flèches is really doing well as a pharmaceutical company. I still haven't told him about the existence of the experimental treatment, because Carl would feel guilty. I hope he never has to know, though I suppose that he will read those letters if I ever want him to pass them on to you. He'd be curious, you see.

I don't want Carl to blame himself or you or anyone for this. I think I am lucky, because I found something worth living for and I pursued it until I could no longer. I was blessed with feeling so strongly for a time, and I thank you for that, cello man. Even if I didn't live long, I lived well.

* * *

One of the nurses is really interested in classical music, so she's said she'd watch the début of Diva with me tomorrow on TV. She says it's a special treat, because I'm not normally allowed to watch TV, and that it's to celebrate the fact that I made it past the New Year. (I'm not really living though. I don't go outside any more apart for my daily trips to the piazza, I spend my days hooked to an oxygen mask and even at night I can't get away from the beeping machines.) All the doctors think I'm about to die any day, but I don't want to go until I've seen Cello Man one last time.

I feel weak. For all I want to see Cello Man, I don't think I can last long. Please hurry up.

* * *

You were on TV.

When Diva began to sing, people in the hospital turned into absolute monsters. I thought I was going to die, except that none of them were interested in me. I think my blood was too full with the bacteria for even a monster to want to come near the germ-hive I have become. They say it's Cinq Flèches' products, which means that Carl and Nina probably are like that too. I don't know what to think. I think I'm still in shock at watching the nurse turn into one of the monsters right before my eyes.

You were on TV, Cello Man. You were with the girl who tried to stop Diva.

I heard the explosion over at the Lincoln Theatre. I suppose you are dead too; you and Diva and the girl with the sabre. I suppose I outlived you all, you and your cello and the Nurse and Carl. It's ironic.

I have wheeled myself over to the remains of Lincoln Theatre. It wasn't easy, but the hospital has been in such disarray that I slipped by unnoticed. It was actually harder dragging myself over from the bed to the wheelchair without my oxygen mask.

I've had to stop a lot of times as I made my way. I left in the early morning, when there was the least staff and they were the most tired, but by now it's midday and I'm only just reaching the taped off zone. They say we are not at danger of radiation because they didn't use an atomic bomb, but the area is desert regardless. Apart from the yellow police tape fluttering in the breeze, there is no movement. My wheelchair couldn't make it through the rubble so I've left it behind. I'm struggling to walk now that I haven't had my oxygen mask on for a while, but I snatched a splintered piece of beam and it will serve me well enough for what I want to do.

The stage isn't there any more, but I remember coming here when I was younger, with Mom and Dad, so I know where you and the man you were fighting must have stood during the explosion. I sit down on the dust and pull out the stack of letters that you will never read. It's a shame, because I think you might have liked to know what an impact you made.

I'm out of breath. I don't think I can make it back, and even if the lack of oxygen didn't kill me then the cold would before I could reach my room. I'm content with dying here. Carl is gone, you are gone and I have no idea where your cello might be. I don't know what I would do with it - perhaps play the few scales my teacher showed me once, a year and a half ago?

Time has flown me by so fast.

I'm sorry, cello-man, that I never got to thank you in person for all you had done for me. I'm sorry that I outlived you, although I'm also a little smug because yeah - I outlived you all when I thought I'd be the first to go. I'm sorry that I let you play the cello in the rain, that first time round with the storm. Perhaps, if I had had the guts to share my umbrella, I wouldn't have caught that stupid bacteria and I could have listened to you play the cello a little longer.

I suppose all this must seem so trivial to you, having died fighting a monster. You were probably killing them too, over the past year and a half.

Thanks for risking your life like that.

I hope that I'll meet you, wherever souls go to die, and that perhaps you might play me the Song one last time?

* * *

She wakes up with a gasp. There is the sweet burn of Oxygen in her lungs and the Song playing right next to her. Eyes fly open, the Song stops and the black haired man leans over. His hand is warm over her own.

"_my name is Hagi."

Her lungs are clear and she feels like she could move mountains. She cannot understand why she is still alive.

"_would you like to learn how to play the cello?"


End file.
